Serket's Sting
by Janec Shannon
Summary: Arthur knew of the distinct shape of a Serket's stinger. He knew that no one who bore the mark of their sting could live long enough for it to scar. And that is why he couldn't take his eyes off the shiny white scar on Merlin's lower back. 4x09 Not Slash
1. In Which Merlin Really Ought To Be Dead

_**Summary:**__ Arthur knew of the distinct shape of a Serket's stinger. He knew that no one who bares the mark of their sting will ever live long enough for it to scar. And that is why he can't take his eyes off the shiny white scar on Merlin's lower back. _

_**Disclaimer: **__I don't own Merlin, I'm just barrowing the characters for a while._

_So far, this has at least three parts, not sure how many it will end up with after that. I want to try to make it slash but for some reason every time I try it never actually turns out that way so we'll see._

_Also, this takes place after 4x09 (since that's as far as is out when I wrote it) and has spoilers through that. _

.oO***Oo.

The Darkling Woods were a very dangerous place. Arthur knew this and, though he would venture there when necessary, he understood the risks of that forest and tread with utmost caution.

When he had been younger (old enough to know better but too young to care) he and several of his knights had followed a band of bandits into the forest. The bandits inadvertently wandered too close to a serket nest before the patrol caught up to them. Only a few were still alive, writhing on ground and gasping for breath as the final stages of the painful poison ravaged their bodies. They were met with the same injury on each body they checked for life.

A single puncture wound, oval in shape, mostly located on the torso and varying from two to three finger's width across and a finger's width tall. At first the wounds appeared to have smooth edges, but later inspection of a cleaned one would reveal the stingers to have small ridges all the way around. Small veins of black led away from each puncture, the skin dented in slightly as though the flesh beneath had simply disappeared.

There were signs that several bodies had been dragged away. For food, Arthur assumed.

The young prince would have left it at that. These were dangerous creatures, yes, but he didn't have enough men with him to exterminate a nest of (obviously) poisonous creatures and he knew the townspeople knew to stay away. They spoke of these woods in whispered warnings. Only the foolish and the suicidal ventured here.

When a loud hiss filled the clearing, he had briefly wished he'd listened.

The scent of the bodies, fresh kills, had caught the attention of a single youngling. It was still growing so its armored body had several gaps they were able to take advantage of. Later he would truly understand how lucky they were that it was just the one, but as Sir Robert landed the killing blow and as the youngling serket's stinger slipped into the knights flesh it was hard to appreciate.

Sir Leon was with them that day. He was the one who suggested cutting the stinger and taking it with them. (He'd been bitten by a poisonous snake once as a child but his father had been an intelligent man. He was quick to catch the snake that bit his son knowing that the poison itself is often used in the creation of an antidote.)

They rode hard through most of the night, hoping to get Sir Robert and the stinger to Gaius before the knight could fall to the same fate as the bandits, until it became apparent that the knight could travel no more. Sir Leon was sent ahead with the stinger and as a detailed description of the creature as they could manage.

Sir Robert never made it back to Camelot alive.

Arthur was forced to watch each stage of the poison's progression and, in his guilt at leading the man to his death, he committed each one to memory. He watched as Sir Robert shivered, even as his brow burned with fever and sweat dripped from his hair. He watched as all color drained from Sir Robert's skin. He watched as the black veins appeared on Sir Robert's skin. He watched as Sir Robert tried to claw at his own flesh and rid himself of the infection until they were forced to restrain him. He watched as the black tendrils grew and Sir Robert (a man he had seen take a knife wound to the stomach stoically) screamed in agony at the lightest of touches. He watched as Sir Robert begged them to kill him, to end his suffering. And finally, he watched as Sir Robert thanked him with his last breath for doing so.

Later, Gauis would tell him he had done the right thing. That there was no antidote for a serket's poison and even if he had gotten the knight back to the castle, there would have been nothing the physician could do but ease his pain and end his suffering. Arthur had spent every spare moment he had for almost a week reading up on the creatures that had ended his knight's life (his guilt allowed no other alternative).

He came to the conclusion that such a poison was too dangerous to be kept in Camelot and too torturous for the young prince to ever consider using on even his worst enemies. Young Arthur didn't doubt that his father would take full advantage of having access to such a rare poison if he got his hands on it, however. So he ordered the stinger and every drop of poison Gaius had collected from it burned (he was relieved to find out that Gaius had never bothered to collect any).

So yes, Arthur knew of the Serkets and the distinct shape of their stingers.

Just as he knew that no one who bares the mark of their sting will ever live long enough for it to scar.

And that is why, as Merlin pulled his rain-soaked tunic over his head and bent over to lay it out by the fire in the small cave, Arthur couldn't take his eyes off the shiny white scar on Merlin's lower back.

His manservant turned to him, a curious look in his eye but all Arthur can see in his mind is that scar. A ridged oval with dented veins of white flesh that he knew had once been black.

And he realized, in that moment, just how close he had come to losing Merlin without even knowing it. And he wondered, as his eyes flicker over the other scars of all shapes and sizes, just how many other times he had almost lost his closest friend without ever being told.

Merlin's worried, "Arthur?" snapped him out of his reverie and he allowed his worry to turn itself into anger. Because he _knows_ that scar has not always been there (and he'll never admit that he's just a little furious with himself for not noticing when his friend's body had become more scarred than some of his knights).

Arthur's eyes burned with confused anger as they met Merlin's and he quietly whispered, "You should be dead."


	2. In Which Arthur Is Mentally Afflicted

Merlin shivered slightly as he struggled out of his sopping blue tunic and laid it out by the fire. He crouched by the heat and tried to work the feeling back into his freezing hands as he muttered.

"I _told_ you it was going to rain today. But_ noooo_ Merlin's such a girl because he doesn't want to get a _little _wet..." he muttered, _just_ loud enough for Arthur to hear. He raised his head slightly to glare at the blond across the fire and added, "This is more than a little wet."

The words stuck in his throat, however when he saw the way Arthur was looking at him: white as a sheet with a mild amount of horror in his eyes.

Merlin tensed and rose to his feet so he was no longer crouching. Arthur's stare seemed to be focused somewhere beyond him and the manservant tried to follow his gaze to see what had caught the king's attention but there was nothing but the rough wall of the cave and Merlin's worry only grew.

"Arthur?" he asked, hoping to gain the other man's attention, perhaps even an explanation, but as the king's eyes snapped to his, the worry and horror turn to anger.

Ice flooded Merlin's veins as the king whispered, "You should be dead."

He wracked his brain to think of what he might have done in the last 5 minutes to cause this reaction (because Arthur was _just fine _5 minutes ago) but nothing beyond his usual cheekiness comes to mind. And he doesn't really think that has anything to do with it because he'd said far worse in the past without his lack of deadness being pointed out to him.

Arthur's eyes drifted downward and seem to settle on the warlock's stomach. Merlin's eyes followed, again trying to see whatever it was his friend saw, but there was nothing but his own pale flesh. Exactly as it was before he'd put his shirt on this morning. And the morning before that. And the morning before that. And the…

No, three days ago he'd had to heal a _minor_ stab wound to his right side after a _tiny_ scuffle with an evil sorcerer hell-bent on the complete and utter destruction of Camelot. He just… forgot to notice the knife… It really wasn't as big a deal as Gaius made it out to be.

It wasn't like it hit any _vital_ organs…

"Turn around."

Arthur's voice jerked him back to the present. Merlin knew Arthur meant it as order, but there was almost a desperate quality to the words making them more into a plea. And now that he'd heard it again, he recognized the tone Arthur was using. He'd heard Gaius use it often enough when he'd survived something no one else would have. As much as he hates to admit it, he's lived through quite a number of things he really shouldn't have (three days ago _definitely _not being one of them), so that fact really doesn't narrow it down any.

Instead of obeying (because, really, he's _Merlin_ and what else does Arthur expect?) he cheekily replied, "No thanks, if you've gone metal I'd prefer to keep an eye on you."

But Arthur had never been known for his patience and, before the servant could blink, he'd been manhandled into turning around. Kept in place by a firm, but surprisingly gentle, grip on his upper arms. The warlock let the king do as he pleased (for the moment) because he'd learned that when Arthur was in the mood to manhandle him into doing something that, unless he had any actual objection to it, it was usually best just to let him.

He just looked over his shoulder at the king and wondered if Arthur realized the anxiety he was causing. It had been years since Merlin had been completely comfortable with anyone at his back. He never allowed it to show, of course. Not even Gaius new the uncomfortable niggle that always whispered at the back of his mind when someone got just a little too close.

Arthur was more than _just a little_ too close.

And although the urge to flee was far less than it would have been with almost everyone else, Merlin forced his body to remain still. Because, despite Arthur's haunting words that Merlin really ought to be dead, he didn't seem to be making any move to remedy that particular discrepancy. So, even when one of Arthur's hands released his arm, Merlin didn't try to move away. He couldn't stop the small flinch at the ghosting of a touch on the left side of his lower back, though.

Partially from surprise.

Partially because it tickled (just a little).

But mainly because he could only fight his instincts so much and a flinch was better than jerking away entirely.

He tried to think about what injuries he'd had where Arthur seemed to be focusing his attention, but he'd stopped keeping track so long ago he can't really place what was done where or what scarred and what didn't. Especially the ones on his back… _Out of sight, out of mind_ sort of thing.

And they didn't really matter anyway, so long as no one noticed and no one asked questions. And no one ever did because he was constantly following Arthur into stupid and dangerous situations and a few scars were bound to go with that (even if no one seemed to notice he usually got out of the _normally _dangerous situations relatively unscathed).

The fingers on his back became bolder, tracing spindly lines away from the spot they'd touched initially. Merlin was becoming increasingly worried as to what had gotten into Arthur. And not only that, but he was more than a little uncomfortable as he felt his skin flushing under Arthur's hands. Because no one, not even Freya, had ever really _touched_ his bare flesh except when he was injured. And certainly not this almost reverent exploration that Arthur was currently embarking on.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, fighting a full-bodied blush and fidgeting nervously. He nearly opened his mouth to quip, _I know Gwen's a sweet girl and all, but I think you'll have a hard time convincing her to share you. _Fortunately, he managed to swallow those words before they escaped.

Gwen was gone.

Hopefully she'd gone to Ealdor like he'd told her to, at least then he'd know she would be safe. His mother would take care of her until she could figure out what she was going to do exactly. Because, as much as he knew Arthur felt betrayed by her actions (that Merlin still wasn't convinced were entirely her own), he knew the king would never quite be able to forgive himself if anything ever happened to her.

And, a little selfishly, he hoped she might help train up some of the men so there wouldn't be another incident like Kannan. There hadn't been for several years, but Merlin didn't trust the stories of Ealdor's victory that day to keep bandits and raiders away forever.

Still… He had to say something to Arthur soon because the knot in his stomach was growing and the tenuous grip he had on his fight or flight instincts was slipping and as much as he reminded himself that _this was Arthur_ it wasn't.

"What's got you so fascinated back there?" he asked, trying to sound lighthearted and cheeky but something in his tone must have alerted Arthur to his discomfort because the king suddenly released him like he'd been burned.

"Nothing," Arthur snapped as he backed away. Merlin turned to study him for a moment. Curious but willing to let it drop for the time being, at least until he could get dinner on the fire.

He'd figure out what to do with a mentally afflicted Arthur after they got some nice, warm stew in their bellies.


	3. In Which Gwaine Is A Terrible Forager

_Ok, so initially this started off as them off alone hunting but then FireChildSlytherin5 pointed out that that Arthur is king now and he doesn't exactly get to just go off and randomly hunt just because he feels like it anymore. Plus, it actually kinda works. The Round Table Knights would know better than to interfere unless necessary… The next chapter will probably combine their POVs._

_Thank you to DragonflyonBreak for betaing this chapter :) She was a great help in pointing out and resolving several issues!_

.oO***Oo.

Arthur lightly brushed his fingers over the oval shaped scar. From this distance he could see the ridges, measure the scar's size and the length of the dented tendrils that spidered away from it. He could tell what stage of the poison Merlin had gotten to, calculate how long and how badly he had suffered. The information was, quite literally, right under his fingertips if he choose to look for it. Arthur traced the pale vines and unconsciously measured them, calculating.

Hours.

Merlin would have suffered for _hours_.

And (though he tried not to) he could almost hear the pain filled screams. He tried to shake the image of Merlin, sweaty and pale, clawing at his own flesh. Tendrils of this length meant he would have reached the final stage of the poison before whatever miracle that saved him had done so. He would have reached a stage of the poison they had never allowed Sir Robert to get to.

Merlin would have begun to slowly suffocate as his lungs filled with fluid. His breath coming in short gasps as he sucked in air but never seemed to get enough.

Arthur's old research told him it was only an unlucky few that reached the final stage of suffocation. He had a new found appreciation for Merlin's often underestimated endurance. Most people's bodies gave out from the shock of the pain long before the poison reached the final stage. That, or they had someone (as Sir Robert had) to take pity on them before they got to that point.

The fact that Merlin had reached it meant he had suffered long and he had suffered alone.

"What's got you so fascinated back there?"

He could tell Merlin was trying to keep his tone light, but Arthur knew him too well. He heard the subtle changes in his manservant's voice that said any answers given would be guarded (if he could get anything beyond sarcasm, that is) and _that _brought his attention to the rest of Merlin's reactions. The set of his shoulders, the way he'd unconsciously shifted to the balls of his feet, and the growing caution in his eyes.

Merlin wasn't reacting like someone who knew he'd have someone he could rely on, someone who would have his back if he asked for it. The set of his shoulders belonged to someone who'd been stabbed in the back one too many times (apparently literally as well as figuratively). Someone who'd trusted too much, had been burned.

But it made no sense.

Merlin was one of those people that everyone seemed to love being around. Without ever trying to, he awoke protective instincts in even the hardest of hearts, and Arthur was no exception to this. Even before he considered Merlin to be one of his closest friends (or even before he'd even considered him to be _a_ friend) those protective instincts had flared each time the servant was in danger. He almost couldn't bring himself to question how many other times Merlin had been hurt that he _didn't_ know about.

Arthur jerked away from his manservant as the painful whispers of his mind told him of the inadequacy of his friendship.

"Nothing." His tone came out far harsher than he intended, but he was still haunted by the imagery of Merlin's suffering that his mind had provided.

He backed away from his manservant, settling himself next to a completely forgotten Sir Leon who was looking over Arthur with the same worried curiosity that his manservant was. They kept an eye on the mentally afflicted king, though Merlin set the large cooking pot outside the mouth of the cave to collect water to cook their dinner in. Gwaine would be back from checking the perimeter soon and he wanted to at least get the water boiling before the knight got back. They were all cold and wet. Some stew would do them all good.

When the other knight did return, he brandished a decently sized pheasant (that for some strange reason brought an amused smile to Merlin's lips) and a small bag of berries which he declared to be dessert. Merlin took one of the berries and observed it carefully before muttering dryly, "I hope you didn't eat any of these."

Gwaine smirked. "Of course not! Would I treat myself without sharing with my fellow knights?"

A chorus of several _Yes_' was his answer. His face took on a mildly offended pout until Leon sauntered up to him and looped an arm over his shoulder. "Now, now," he started, sounding almost scolding of the other men, "_Surely_ the bright red on his lips is, in fact, from kissing a fair maiden. In the middle of the forest. During a freezing cold rainstorm," he informed them before ducking away from the playful swing Gwaine took at him.

Everyone laughed though Merlin's smile quickly faded. "So long as you didn't eat of them-" his tone clearly indicated he believed otherwise.

"I didn't!"

"Then take these and chuck them outside the cave where no one else will accidentally do so," he finished as though Gwaine hadn't interrupted him. He handed the cotton bag that was beginning to turn red from the juices back to the long haired knight and waited for the question he knew was coming.

Gwaine eyed the bag suspiciously and asked, "What if a few _might_ have made their way into my mouth?"

"Then you're going to have very bad stomach cramps in about an hour unless I get a few of the leaves from the plant," the manservant answered. He eyed the still-drying tunic by the fire before grabbing his jacket and walking out of the cave, calling behind him, "Next time leave the foraging to me, Gwaine!"

Arthur sighed in annoyance. "Gwaine, go with him. Make sure he doesn't get himself killed," he ordered.

"You can prepare the bird then!" Gwaine laughed as he tossed the pheasant to Elyan. He gave Arthur a mocking bow before chasing after his best friend.

Arthur waited until they were gone before he spoke quietly to Leon beside him. "Do you remember Sir Robert?" Leon frowned in confusion and Arthur immediately realized the reason. Robert was a common name and Leon would have no reason to make the connection between Merlin and the now-dead knight. "Sir Robert of Estercliff," he clarified.

Recognition lit Leon's eyes but his confusion only grew. The knight remained silent as he waited for more information.

Arthur's eyes wandered back to the mouth of the cave where Merlin and Gwaine had disappeared, "Merlin has a scar from a Serket's sting on his back."

Leon froze at his words."That's impossible."

"Apparently not." Arthur's eyes returned to his knight and he added, "And I fully intend to find out how."


End file.
